


You've Got a Friend in Me

by applecore



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Boston Bruins, F/M, Fatal Vore, Gen, Inflation, Minor Character Death, Non-fatal vore, Team Feels, Vore, team dad chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zdeno only swallows people for the good of the team. Sometimes it's temporary, to help settle a player down and give them a chance to rest. Other times it's... <i>not</i> temporary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains vore, both fatal and non-fatal (the fluffy non-fatal stuff is in the first chapter); some implied het sexiness with Chara/his wife; ridiculous worldbuilding that should not be taken seriously.
> 
> The character death is not of a player.

The new-season shine had started to wear about the time Marchy hit a bad stretch - no shots one game, no shots the next, one shot and a post. Zdeno watched the frustration simmer in him, saw how hard he skated and how he slammed his stick on the bench afterwards. 

After the next game – one shot attempt that went wide, a goal against – Zdeno found him fuming silently in his stall. It was the silence that made up Zdeno’s mind. “Come in tomorrow. In the morning,” he added, because they’d both need recovery time before they played Florida. There was a reason he usually tried not to do this on game days. “Nine.”

Marchy nodded, wide-eyed. Who knew what the team had told him.

*

The next morning, Zdeno found Marchy wandering uncertainly in the direction of the locker room. “This way,” Zdeno said, leading Marchy to the captain’s lounge, just down the hall from the trainers’ rooms. Every captain arranged his differently to suit his particular skills; Zdeno’s had an enormous sofa, far deeper than a normal one, and a TV. Zdeno sat down on the sofa and gestured Marchy to sit as well. “The shots haven’t been coming for you lately,” he said.

Marchy took a sharp breath. He snuck a glance at Zdeno. His hand twitched like he wanted it to be a fist, and he mutely shook his head.

“So that’s what this is for. Most people need it once in a while. It’s not punishment,” he added, because that was important, even if the rookies didn’t always get beforehand. Or after either, sometimes, but Zdeno wasn’t going to consider that possibility yet for Marchy. “It’s to help you get outside yourself now and then.”

“Yeah,” Marchy said, voice tight. “Bergy says he likes it.”

“Maybe you will, too, eh?”

Looking extremely dubious, Marchy said, “Just tell me what to do.”

“You probably want to strip,” Zdeno said. “Boxers are fine. Then lie on the sofa.” While Marchy did that, Zdeno fetched the remotes for the TV. He dimmed the lights; he’d found this was more pleasant for everyone. He took out his phone and set the alarm.

“Okay?” Marchy said from the sofa. He was propped up on one elbow.

“Just a minute,” Zdeno said. He took off his t-shirt. Only his sweats were left, tied just tight enough to keep them on his hips. “Remember to curl up. Don’t struggle. You don’t want to put your captain on IR, right?”

Marchy’s mouth twitched in an uncertain grin.

“Don’t worry about air. It’s easy to worry, but there will be plenty, I promise.”

“Right,” Marchy said, still doubtful.

Zdeno sat on the sofa a little beyond Marchy’s feet. This was always the hardest part with a new one. They didn’t know how to make it easy, for him or for themselves. Zdeno laid a hand on Marchy’s calf. “You’ll be fine,” he said. The he stretched himself out, his head even with Marchy’s ankles. He opened his mouth, and opened it, and opened it. He shoved forward, and Marchy’s feet slipped down his throat. Marchy shivered, but otherwise held himself still, and that was all Zdeno could ask, this first time out. He pushed a little more, and he was tonguing Marchy’s knee. Now he could get a real grip. His began to work his throat, drawing Marchy in. His lips closed around Marchy’s hips.

Marchy’s feet slid to a stop in the bottom of Zdeno’s stomach. For a moment they were at impasse. Then Marchy seemed to remember, and he bent his knees. Suddenly there was plenty of space again. Zdeno shifted onto his side, to give Marchy a place to go. Zdeno’s stomach had begun to bow unevenly out.

When Zdeno drew even with Marchy’s chest, Marchy had crossed his arms over it – tight, so they wouldn’t catch on anything. Another foot, and Zdeno paused to awkwardly pat Marchy on the head. Marchy giggled, high and anxious, but that was all right. He’d see soon. Or else he wouldn’t.

Zdeno paused again with his mouth around Marchy’s shoulders. He couldn’t speak right now, of course, but if Marchy was going to panic and beg off, he should have one last chance. 

“I’m fine,” Marchy snapped, not entirely convincingly. “Do it already.”

It was easy, that last little way. Zdeno swallowed once, twice, pulling Marchy down, and then Marchy’s head slipped a few more inches, and he was in. Zdeno closed his mouth and took a few deep breaths. They helped relax him and his stomach. Then he said, “I’m going to sit up now.” 

From within came one muffled word. “Okay.”

Carefully Zdeno pushed himself upright. He went slowly, giving Marchy and himself time to adjust. But finally Zdeno sat with his back to the sofa, his legs splayed, and his naked belly sitting between them, swollen full of Marchy. Zdeno stroked the top of the curve, where Marchy’s head might or might not have been. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “You won’t hurt me.”

The shape of his stomach shifted, elongating and then rounding again as Marchy rearranged himself. Finally he settled into what Zdeno could tell by the distribution of weight was fetal position. They always ended up in fetal, sooner or later. “All right?” he asked, smoothing his hand over his belly.

From within came a noise of assent, barely more than a grunt. The juices of his stomach were already getting to Marchy, then – gentle soporifics that soaked into the skin and relaxed the prey. Or the teammate, as the case might be. Zdeno thought he was starting to feel them, too, although that might just have been him anticipating. He’d been doing this so long that just the bulk of another person in his belly relaxed him immediately, weighing him down and stretching him out - no chemical assistance required. 

He paused a moment to reach for the remote and found a nature documentary – something soothing about the deep sea. He turned the volume down until the narrator’s voice was a murmur. He breathed deeply and began stroking his belly again. Some of them enjoyed the rhythmic motion. More importantly, Zdeno did, too.

Hours spent like this felt timeless. Zdeno didn’t know how other captains did without it – Crosby with his mind-meld whatever-the-hell and Lundqvist’s tentacle therapy and Phaneuf’s—well, no one outside the Leafs organization was really clear on what Phaneuf did. That was all fine, and seemed to work well enough for them, or not, but Zdeno wouldn’t have chosen any other way but this. The primal, instinctual part of him was smug and impossibly satisfied with having fed. The intellectual part was concerned with helping the team. And the other part – it liked having a teammate so close, taking care of him, breathing in sync with him.

Too soon, the alarm burbled on his phone. He reached over to turn it off, and then he began to massage his belly. “Time’s up. We have to get up. Have to get ready for the Panthers tonight.”

Marchy shifted sluggishly, not nearly awake. Zdeno kept on talking to him, kept rubbing over where he thought Marchy’s head was, and finally Marchy grunted something that might have been a question.

Good enough. Zdeno pushed himself down on his side, took some deep breaths, and began working Marchy back up his throat. Soon he had to stop, Marchy still curled up and immovable, but some coaxing and more massaging eventually unbent him. 

Finally Marchy was out, all the way down to his toes, and Zdeno could close his mouth again. Marchy grunted a couple more times, pushed himself up, and sat unsteadily on the edge of the sofa. He blinked at Zdeno. “Huh,” he said.

“How do you feel?”

Marchy blinked some more. “Okay?” He rubbed his hand over his knee, wet with digestive juices. He did not smell particularly attractive. He took a deep breath, and he said, “I feel pretty good, I think?”

“You’ll want a shower now,” Zdeno told him. “Then lunch and a nap before the game tonight.”

Marchy nodded slowly. “That. That sounds good.”

*

By the time Zdeno saw Marchy in the locker room that night, he was awake again, mouth running as fast as ever. He caught Zdeno’s eye on him and made a sharp salute.

He made a team-high seven shots.


	2. Chapter 2

Zdeno started the 2013-2014 season feeling shaken. There was nothing to account for it – a new season, a few new faces, plenty of old ones to keep things comfortable. Seggy was gone, and that rattled a few people. Those first few games, underneath the rapid-fire chirping and general assholery, Marchy was downright morose. Still, they took home wins more often than they didn’t, and Tuuks looked good. Tuuks looked very, very good. There was no reason for Zdeno’s continued unease.

He ignored it. He played his minutes, he hosted the occasional barbecue, he swallowed the occasional teammate as needed. He captained his team through Thorty’s record-breaking suspension. The words _Norris contender_ started to appear, attached to his name. The Bruins kept winning.

On an evening in March, on a whim, he invited Jarome out to dinner – just the two of them on the town, the night before they played the Habs. “We’re too old for whatever the children are planning,” he told Jarome, throwing a thumb towards Torey and Reilly.

Jarome shrugged, easy to persuade. “You got a place? Because I know a place we should go. Pork ribs, man. Best in Montreal.”

They were shown to a table in a corner, private and out of the way. Once they’d ordered, Jarome folded his hands and asked, “So am I in trouble, Captain?”

Zdeno laughed, shook his head.

Jarome squinted at him. “I thought maybe you brought us out here for a reason.”

Zdeno opened his mouth to deny it and realized the words would be a lie. Jarome waited patiently while Zdeno worked out what he wanted to say instead. Even then, he surprised himself. “They traded Seguin.”

Jarome’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment. 

“It’s still – it was a stupid trade, and it’s still bothering me. Isn’t that strange?” It seemed strange to Zdeno, and saying it out loud didn’t make any more sense of it. “We’re doing well. We’re winning. We’ve got some great young talent – Dougie’s going to be a star. We’ve got some great contributors all up and down. Look at Marchy.” And there was that same niggle of recognition. “Although I’m worried about Marchy.”

Jarome, with remarkable neutrality for a man who’d played against Brad Marchand as well as with, said, “He seems a little high-strung.”

Zdeno wasn’t sure now why he’d brought up Marchy at all. What really bothered him was, “They traded Seguin, and who’ll they trade next, Iggy?”

“It’s the job, Z,” Jarome said gently. After a weighty pause, he added, “I mean. Unless you want to go by fiat.”

“Fuck,” Zdeno said, leaning back in his chair. He closed his eyes. “Fuck.” When he opened them, Jarome was still there, looking sympathetic. “Did you ever? On the Flames?”

“Naw. I was tempted, believe me. Couple of times, but—no one really does it. You know.”

“It’s extreme. Is it—I’m just imagining things, aren’t I? You’ve been here a few months now. You know the team. You see what we’re doing. I can’t justify a fiat when we’re on pace to win the President’s Trophy.”

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.”

“I’m not captain of this team,” Jarome said, still so gentle. “I haven’t been captain of any team for a while now. I can’t tell you what you should do. No one can tell you, Z.”

“It was worth a try,” Zdeno said wryly. He found himself obscurely comforted. Dinner had been a good idea, even though Jarome didn’t have, couldn’t have any of the answers Zdeno wanted.

*

In the end, it was Marchy who made Zdeno’s decision for him. 

The night they lost game seven in TD Garden, Zdeno asked Marchy to come to dinner before he left town. Marchy’s atrocious post-season, his rabid-dog play and zero goals had set the media afire with trade rumors, and that worried Zdeno. 

Maybe there was some other reason he asked, too. Maybe it was that same instinct that had been bothering Zdeno all year.

“They won’t trade me,” Marchy declared later that week from behind his beer. “I’m that workhorse kinda guy they like, right?” He grinned at Zdeno, eyes a little manic and too bright for a day they didn’t and wouldn’t play a game. “Besides, they’re talking about this fucking sports psychology stuff, and they want to look over my summer training plan, and. Fuck.” He slumped in his chair. His next grin looked a little sickly. “They’ll trade Dougie first, like they did Segs. And Kessel. And… Jumbo Joe? Not me. Assholes like Looch and Thorty and me, they keep. Right?”

His words sunk into Zdeno like certainty, like prophecy. It was petty, Zdeno thought. Irrational. A decision of this magnitude should depend on more than the fate of a single player whose recent contributions when it mattered had been thin.

But it wasn’t just Marchy. He was right; who knew what bright young talent they’d offload next. And Zdeno wouldn’t be around much longer. He had a few short years to captain his team to something worth playing for.

The question of _who_ was next. Blame Chiarelli for the trades themselves or Julien for the poor usage that necessitated them? Seggy was flourishing in Dallas, and there was something bitter in that, knowing he likely never would have shone so bright in Boston.

Chiarelli, Zdeno decided. The next guy in could deal with Julien, knowing that Zdeno was watching. He put in the call. Would Chiarelli like to come over for drinks, he said. Zdeno had some things to discuss with him, he said. Chiarelli said, Sunday night okay?

Zdeno called Piesy. “I need to talk to you as my NHLPA representative. I need the documentation for a fiat.”

“Holy shit.”

“This is confidential, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Piesy said, a little faint.

Most of the forms were simple enough. He had to call Piesy back a couple of times on specifics, and when he got to the final part – requirements clearly stated – he wrote and scratched out a half a dozen drafts on a notepad before he got the phrasing the way he wanted. He signed and dated the thing, scanned it and sent it to Piesy, made a copy, and filed the original in his safe.

He went golfing with his neighbor, just to distract himself from what came next. He called Tatiana and told her he’d be a while longer, coming home to Trenčín. He’d keep her updated, he promised.

Four nights after Zdeno made his decision, Peter Chiarelli knocked on his door. “Come in, come in,” Zdeno said. “Wine’s already open. I’ve been letting it breathe.”

“Classy,” Chiarelli said approvingly. “Tatiana and the kid?”

“Already back in Slovakia. Grandparents need their granddaughter time, you know.” Zdeno showed Chiarelli into the living room and poured them each a glass.

“Sure, sure. So what’s up?”

Zdeno didn’t have to talk. The fiat was his to issue at will. He’d seen enough in the past eight years; one Stanley Cup and another final didn’t give him the confidence one would hope. Still. Give Chiarelli one last chance. “I—have some concerns. About the team, and the makeup.”

“Whoa whoa,” Chiarelli said, hands up in surrender. “You know I can’t talk about that stuff, Z. Mum’s the word.” He zipped his lips. “Sorry.”

“I’m concerned that we’ll lose more talent the way we did Seguin.”

“Shit. Shit, Z, you think I don’t hear enough about that trade? But he didn’t fit for us. He wasn’t ever going to fit for us, you know that. We don’t play fancy hockey here.”

Zdeno squinted at Chiarelli. Chiarelli, Zdeno thought, had been reading too many of his own press releases. “What about Dougie?”

Chiarelli’s face lit up. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

Two years ago, Seggy had been great, too. “And Marchy?”

“Erg.” Chiarelli grimaced. “These were not great playoffs for him.”

“He can come back,” Zdeno said, sure of it in his bones, with a captain’s certainty.

“Hopefully,” Chiarelli agreed. “No guarantees, though. You know how it is.”

“So there are no assurances you can give me? About keeping Dougie and Marchy, about losing some of this dead weight we’ve been carrying in the name of ‘grit’?”

Chiarelli looked genuinely apologetic. “Boston hockey, man.” 

Zdeno nodded. That was it, then. The fate of ‘Boston hockey’ – the real kind – depended on him. 

He went to the video cabinet and retrieved the handcuffs he’d put there that afternoon. He returned to the sofa, and as Chiarelli squinted at the flash of the metal, Zdeno gripped both his wrists. Chiarelli’s eyes had gone wide, and he tried to struggle, but Zdeno had eleven inches, seventy pounds, and an athlete’s training regimen on him. It wasn’t a contest. He snapped the cuffs shut.

“What the fucking fuck, Chara?”

From the coffee table Zdeno pulled out the copies he’d made of the official documents. He cleared his throat and began to read the top page aloud. “Peter Chiarelli, general manager of the Boston Bruins, by captain’s fiat I hereby relieve you of your duties.”

“No. Nononono.”

“As is my duty as captain, I must now remove you from the organization.”

Chiarelli’s eyes were very wide. “You don’t have to do this, Z! We can work something out! You said you wanted to keep Marchy? We can keep Marchy, man.” He kept on babbling until he saw the next thing Zdeno had pulled out of the coffee table: Tatiana’s sewing scissors. “What are those for?”

“Your clothes,” Zdeno said. “I can’t take them off you the normal way while you’re handcuffed, and I don’t want to have to digest them.” Digesting Chiarelli himself would be work enough, not to mention the handcuffs.

_Pleasant_ work. It wasn’t a thought Zdeno had allowed himself to have until now. He’d had to consider this with as clear a head as possible. But now he could admit it himself: he was going to enjoy this.

Chiarelli kept on making noise as Zdeno cut his shirt off of him, though he didn’t struggle much. The threat of getting nicked by the scissors must have been keeping him still, though, because once Zdeno set them aside, he had to wrestle Chiarelli out of his shoes and pants. 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. You didn’t even give me a chance.”

“You’ve had lots of chances,” Zdeno said. “I’m sorry.” He opened his mouth.

Chiarelli was yelling now. Holding Chiarelli’s arms to his sides with both hands, Zdeno opened wider and shoved Chiarelli in head-first. It had been a long, long time since Zdeno had swallowed something that was struggling, but he still had that athlete’s physique. He had throat muscles toned from many a session in the captain’s lounge, too. As soon as he had his mouth around Chiarelli’s shoulders, Zdeno upended the man with his feet in the air. He gulped him down another few inches, this time with gravity working in his favor.

He swallowed and he swallowed, and each time Chiarelli ended a few inches lower than he’d begun. Finally he hit bottom, still head-first, a blunt weight in the pit of Zdeno’s stomach. Zdeno spared a hand to massage the bulge Chiarelli’s shoulder made. Chiarelli yelled again. The vibrations shivered through Zdeno’s chest. 

Finally, speeding the process along with a shove that he and his throat would regret later, Zdeno swallowed Chiarelli’s feet. Zdeno collapsed against the back of the sofa, breath heaving from exertion and adrenaline. 

Chiarelli was still struggling. Trying to kick his way out, probably. Zdeno would come out of this bruised. “Shh,” he said, stroking himself as though Chiarelli was just another spooked rookie who didn’t know how to settle down. “You’ll feel fine in a minute.” 

It was more like twenty minutes of Chiarellli pushing and kicking, distorting the smooth roundness of Zdeno’s belly one way and another, before his movements began to weaken. “There, you see?” said Zdeno tiredly. “Much better.”

_Much_ better. Now that the worst of the struggle was over, Zdeno could begin to appreciate what he had: an enormous meal and all the time in the world to enjoy it. No two-hour alarm this time. He shifted backwards, to better brace himself against the back of the sofa. It took all of his strength. The weight pinning him in place settled him, as it always did, and fondly he began to massage what of his belly he could reach. 

Chiarelli sluggishly shoved back against the pressure, but a little motion was nice, too. It was the one thing missing from the raw steak binge he usually began his summer with. There was nothing in the world, Zdeno reflected, quite so satisfying as a belly enormously full of live prey. 

*

Enormously full he stayed. He sunk into that fullness, that sensation of weight within and stretch without. He lost track of time. He’d made sure to keep the television remote in reach, and every so often he woke out of a pleasant, sated doze to notice he’d been watching infomercials – possibly for hours - and had to change channels.

During one of these wakeful periods, he realized that the last gentle stirrings in his stomach had stilled. So that was that, then. He felt a moment’s regret. Chiarelli had, after all, managed them all the way to a Cup. But this was better.

Zdeno shifted, not even bothering to stifle the belch that followed. His belly gurgled industriously.

Yes. Definitely better.

*

“Zdeno.”

That was Tatiana. But Tatiana was in Slovakia. Zdeno squinted. No, that definitely looked like Tatiana, and she wasn’t happy. Nor was he awake enough to do much about it. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“If you needed time with the boys, why didn’t you tell me? You haven’t answered any of my calls.”

Oh right. Calls. He should have brought the phone with him. Why hadn’t he brought the phone with him? Maybe he’d just been too anxious to get the whole thing started. “I’m sorry.”

Tatiana heaved a sigh. “I haven’t heard from you in almost two weeks, Zdeno. I almost called the police for a, what do they call them here, a wellness check.”

Zdeno snorted. He could only imagine how that would have gone. “But you flew all the way back instead?”

She settled next to him on the couch. “I figured once I’d forgiven you, we could have some time alone together. Speaking of which, how much time left do you have on this one?” She stroked him, gentle circles over the top of the swell. His belly responded with a low, menacing rumble. Tatiana’s hand stilled. “Zdeno, who do you have in there?”

“I should have told you, I’m sorry. I—” It was a big thing to say, although surely Piesy had notified the appropriate people by now. “I removed Peter Chiarelli. By fiat.”

Tatiana scooted abruptly away from him. She stared at his stomach. “You mean you—how long ago? That you did it?”

Zdeno realized he had no idea. “What day is it?” She told him, and he sucked in a breath. He did the math in his head, and he ventured, “Twelve days?”

She eyed his belly again. “You have quite a ways to go.” 

For the first time, Zdeno was sorry for that. “Tatiana, I—”

“You should have told me.”

“I know—”

She held up a hand. “You should have told me, because I was worried out of my mind. Damn you.” She prodded him in the arm. It hurt, as it should. She heaved a sigh, and on her next breath he saw her forgive him; it was in the tilt of her chin. “But also because if I’d known, I’d have come back sooner,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. She slid a hand across the bulk of him as she did it, and she came away smiling. “You have to be feeling pretty good right now.”

Zdeno was feeling better than he’d dreamed of half an hour ago, and he’d felt pretty great then. He bowed his head as far in her direction as his awkward weight allowed, and she reached up to meet him halfway.

*

Some days after that – Tatiana was keeping track – she came in with phone in hand. “It’s Brad Marchand.”

Zdeno took it from her. He didn’t need to blink awake this time; he was conscious for longer and longer stretches now. “Marchy?” he said.

“Hey, Z. How you doin’?”

Zdeno massaged the swell of his gut. Another week and he’d be able to walk again, he thought. He was looking forward to it, even; his patience with nature documentaries was completely exhausted. “I’m doing very well,” he said. “And how are you?”

“Good! Good. Working hard, you know? I mean, I am. Working hard. I’m not getting traded, Z.”

Zdeno chuckled and patted himself. “No, you aren’t.”

There was a pause. “Thanks,” Marchy said, sounding a little choked. “That means a lot to me.” That wasn’t how Zdeno meant it, but he would have if he’d thought of it. “Listen, I, uh. You know they have me talking to this sports psychologist. And she says it’d be good if I got some captain time during the summer, as part my training. You know, _captain_ time? With you?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, so I was wondering, could I come see you? I’d fly to Slovakia, man. I really want this to work out. This—everything, you know? I’m gonna come back.”

From this Zdeno managed to extract the important bits. “I’ll meet you in Trenčín in a couple of weeks?” Surely he could fly again by then. 

“That sounds great.”

“I’ll let my wife talk details with you. She has a better idea of our plans than I do. And Marchy.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to come back. I promise.”

THE END


End file.
